


fight like a boy

by moodorbs



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: (junko knows JACK SHIT about gender identity! and she doesn't want to learn!), Autistic Ishimaru Kiyotaka, F/M, M/M, Multi, THAT ONES. A BIG ONE, Trans Ishimaru Kiyotaka, Transphobia, for whatever reasons yknow., nobody at hopes peak is neurotypical i swear to god, secret fic!!, secrets get told. nobody dies., the ships havent happened hyet but i PROMMY., token cishet smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodorbs/pseuds/moodorbs
Summary: self indulgent trans taka stuff
Relationships: Eventual chishimondo, Fujisaki Chihiro/Ishimaru Kiyotaka, Fujisaki Chihiro/Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo, Fujisaki Chihiro/Oowada Mondo, Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 86





	fight like a boy

Boys are strong.

You are strong.

You are not a boy. 

They tell you this over and over again, that it is such a pity that you will never carry on the family name, cannot lift the Ishimarus out of their disgrace on your back.

Girls don't do that type of thing.

So you decide not to be a girl.

It's logical, really. You are an only child. You know your parents cannot support another child, ergo, there is no chance of a son being born to do what needs to be done. The person who exists is you, so you will be their son. You will do what they need you to do to save your family.

You declare this to your family one night over a modest dinner and your father laughs.

He says you will not be a boy. You sizzle in your seat with anger and determination. You will do what needs to be done.

That night you bunch your hair behind your head and use the kitchen scissors to lop it off. It is uneven, so you cut until it looks decent--until it's spiky, jutting up from your scalp in a way you think is intimidating.

You like it.

\------

Your father does not.

He says he doesn't need two embarrassments to the family, that he has enough to handle already. That if you really want to help, you will wear a hat until your hair grows out and be a perfect girl, stay under the radar until you find a husband.

You don't think you want to do that.

Instead, you find a name that will make him happy, taking parts from his own, referencing it and making it more you.

There's no hat on your head when you enter your school the next day with a nametag reading Kiyotaka.

\------

The other boys don't like that very much.

You end the day with blood running in rivulets down your face, staining your uniform. You research what clubs provide uniforms, which ones you think would look the best. You don't want to burden your family with the cost of new clothing.

One catches your eye--the public morals committee. A stark white outfit, the same for all members. It appeals to you for a selfish reason, too: You have always seen the world in black and white. There is a stark contrast between what is and is not the right thing to do, and you have always enjoyed navigating it. It makes sense to you, more sense than most of the other things humans do.

You also decide to try out kendo. There is a creeping feeling you will need to use it in the future.

\------

It turns out you were right, when a bully taunts you, saying you fight like a girl and challenges you to a sparring session.

You do, if that means you practice nonstop leading up to the next club meeting, building up your skills bit by bit and thoroughly trouncing him.

You later overhear him telling his friends how he was holding back because he didn't want to hurt you. More specifically he says, "I didn't want to hurt the kid. He's fragile, I was holding back."

It shouldn't matter, because you're not doing it for yourself, but when the bully says "he" you stand up a little straighter and a warm feeling buzzes through your chest, almost enough to forget the bully's blatant lie. Almost.

\------

By the time you reach high school nobody knows that part of your past. You wheeze and fight through kendo practice--though you know you shouldn't bind during exercise, you need to--and still come out a respectable place in tournaments and fights. You don't win them all, but you don't lose them all, either.

The same goes for academia. You hover near the top of your class not through talent, but from nights spent studying.

Others ask how you manage to lose yourself so fully in your work, and you smile and say they can, too, and that you'd be happy to help them out if they so desired. 

You don't tell them about the times you get caught up in an interesting paragraph about legislation in the 18th century and snap back into it three hours later holding a book about staple food sources in America's Pacific Northwest.

You don't tell them how when you are interested in something, it consumes you. How you cannot think of anything _but_ the topic, how it occupies your entire brain. How you want to talk about nothing but it, for hours on end.

You don't tell them how exhausting it is to not control what you want to study.

Instead, you offer your help. That's all you can do. And then you go back to your papers.


End file.
